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TORY -TELL  LI 


ANNIE  TRUMBULL  SLOSSONs?^ 


VE    ?  TY  OF 

»N  DIEGO 


Story-Tell   Lib 


BY  ANNIE  TRUMBULL  SLOSSON 


A  LOCAL  COLORIST 
STORY-TELL  LIB 
FISHIN'  JIMMY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Story-Tell  Lib 

By 

/*«^-    Annie  Trumbull  Slosson 

Author  of  "Fishin*  Jimmy" 


t 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW    YORK 1922 


Copyright,  1900,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Contents 

Page 
I.    Story-Tell  Lib 3 

II.    The  bHET-UP  Posy ^3 

III.    The  Horse  that  B'leeved  he'd 

Get  there 25 

IV.    The  Plant  that  Lost  its  Berry  37 

V.    The  Stony  Head 47 

VI.    Diff'ent  Kind  o'  Bundles     .    .  57 
VII.    The    Boy   that  was   Scaret  o' 

Dyin' 7» 


Story-Tell  Lib 


Story-Tell  Lib 

THAT  was  what  everybody  in  the 
little  mountain  village  called  her. 
Her  real  name,  as  she  often  told  me, 
ringing  out  each  syllable  proudly  in  her 
shrill  sweet  voice,  was  Elizabeth  Row- 
ena  Marietta  York.  A  stately  name, 
indeed,  for  the  little  crippled,  stunted, 
helpless  creature,  and  I  myself  could 
never  think  of  her  by  any  name  but  the 
one  the  village  people  used.  Story-tell 
Lib.  I  had  heard  of  her  for  two  or  three 
summers  in  my  visits  to  Greenhills. 
The  village  folk  had  talked  to  me  of  the 
little  lame  girl  who  told  such  pretty 
stories  out  of  her  own  head,  "  kind  o' 
fables  that  learnt  folks  things,  and  helped 
'em  without  bein'  too  preachy."     But  I 

4 


Story-Tell  Lib 

had  no  definite  idea  of  what  the  child 
was  till  I  saw  and  heard  her  myself. 
She  was  about  thirteen  years  of  age, 
but  very  small  and  fragile.  She  was 
lame,  and  could  walk  only  with  the  aid 
of  a  crutch.  Indeed,  she  could  but 
hobble  painfully,  a  few  steps  at  a  time, 
with  that  assistance.  Her  little  white 
face  was  not  an  attractive  one,  her 
features  being  sharp  and  pinched,  and 
her  eyes  faded,  dull,  and  almost  ex- 
pressionless. Only  the  full,  prominent, 
rounding  brow  spoke  of  a  mind  out  of 
the  common.  She  was  an  orphan,  and 
lived  with  her  aunt.  Miss  Jane  York, 
in  an  old-fashioned  farmhouse  on  the 
upper  road. 

Miss  Jane  was  a  good  woman.  She 
kept  the  child  neatly  clothed  and  com- 
fortably fed,  but  I  do  not  think  she 
lavished  many  caresses  or  loving  words 
on  little  Lib,  it  was  not  her  way,  and  the 

4 


Story-Tell  Lib 

girl  led  a  lonesome,  quiet,  unchildlike 
life.  Aunt  Jane  tried  to  teach  her  to 
read  and  write,  but,  whether  from  the 
teacher's  inability  to  impart  knowledge, 
or  from  some  strange  lack  in  the  child's 
odd  brain,  Lib  never  learned  the  lesson. 
She  could  not  read  a  word,  she  did  not 
even  know  her  alphabet.  I  cannot  ex- 
plain to  myself  or  to  you  the  one  gift 
which  gave  her  her  homely  village 
name.  She  told  stories.  I  listened  to 
many  of  them,  and  I  took  down  from 
her  lips  several  of  these.  They  are,  as 
you  will  see  if  you  read  them,  "kind  o' 
fables,"  as  the  country  folk  said.  They 
were  all  simple  little  tales  in  the  dialect 
of  the  hill  country  in  which  she  lived. 
But  each  held  some  lesson,  suggested 
some  truth,  which,  strangely  enough, 
the  child  herself  did  not  seem  to  see ; 
at  least,  she  never  admitted  that  she  saw 
or  intended  any  hidden  meaning. 


Story-Tell  Lib 

I  often  questioned  her  as  to  this  after 
we  became  friends.     After  listening  to 
some  tale  in  which  I  could  discern  just 
the  lovely  truth  which  would  best  help 
some  troubled  soul  in  her  audience,  I 
have  questioned  her  as  to  its  meaning. 
I  can  see  now,   in   memory,  the  short- 
sighted,   expressionless    eyes    of  faded 
blue   which    met    mine    as     she     said, 
"  Don't  mean  anything,  —  it  don't.     It 's 
jest   a   story.       Stories    don't    have   to 
mean   things;    they're    stories,   and    I 
tells   'em."      That   was    all    she   would 
say,  and  the  mystery  remained.     What 
did     it     mean?     Whence     came     that 
strange  power  of  giving  to  the  people 
who   came   to   her   something   to   help 
and  cheer,  both  help  and  cheer  hidden 
in  a  simple  little  story?     Was  it,  as  I 
like    to    think,    God-given,    a    treasure 
sent  from  above?     Or  would  you  rather 
think  it  an  inheritance  from  some  an- 

6 


Story-Tell  Lib 

cestor,  a  writer,  a  teller  of  tales?  Or 
perhaps  you  believe  in  the  transmigra- 
tion of  souls,  and  think  that  the  spirit 
of  some  ^sop  of  old,  who  spoke  in 
parables,  had  entered  the  frail  crippled 
body  of  our  little  Lib,  and  spoke 
through  her  pinched  pale  lips.  I  leave 
you  your  theories,  I  keep  my  own. 

But  one  thing  which  I  find  I  have 
omitted  thus  far  may  seem  to  you  to 
throw  a  little  light  on  this  matter.  It 
does  not  help  me  much.  Lib  was  a 
wonderful  listener,  as  well  as  a  narrator. 
Miss  Jane  sometimes  took  an  occa- 
sional boarder.  Teachers,  clergymen, 
learned  professors,  had  from  time  to 
time  tarried  under  her  roof.  And  while 
these  talked  to  one  another,  or  to  some 
visitor  from  neighboring  hotels,  little 
Lib  would  sit  motionless  and  silent  by 
the  hour.  One  would  scarcely  call  it 
listening;    to  listen  seems  too  active  a 

7 


Story-Tell  Lib 

verb  in  this  case.  The  girl's  face  wore 
no  eager  look  of  interest,  the  faded, 
short-sighted  eyes  did  not  light  up  with 
intelligence,  nor  the  features  quiver  with 
varied  emotions.  If  she  received  ideas 
from  what  fell  upon  her  ears,  it  must 
have  been  by  a  sort  of  unconscious 
absorption.  She  took  it  in  as  the  earth 
does  the  rain  or  the  flower  the  sunshine. 
And  so  it  was  with  any  reading  aloud 
from  book  or  paper.  She  would  sit, 
utterly  quiet,  while  the  reader's  voice 
went  on,  and  nothing  could  draw  her 
away  till  it  was  ended.  Question  her 
later  as  to  what  was  read  or  spoken  of, 
and  you  gained  no  satisfaction.  If  she 
had  any  idea  of  what  she  had  heard, 
she  had  not  the  power  of  putting  it 
into  words.  "  I  like  it.  I  like  it  lots," 
she  would  say ;   that  was  all. 

Throughout    the   whole    summer    in 
which   I  knew  the   child,    the   summei 

8 


Story-Tell  Lib 

which  came  so  quickly,  so  sadly,  to  an 
end,  little  Lib  sat,  on  bright,  fair  days, 
in  a  low  wooden  chair  under  the  maples 
in  front  of  the  farmhouse.  And  it  had 
grown  to  be  the  custom  of  her  many 
friends,  both  young  and  old,  to  gather 
there,  and  listen  to  her  stories,  if  she 
had  any  to  tell.  I  often  joined  the 
group  of  listeners.  On  many,  many 
days,  as  the  season  advanced.  Lib  had 
no  words  for  us.  She  had  always  been 
a  fragile,  puny  little  creature,  and  this 
year  she  seemed  to  grow  weaker, 
thinner,  more  waxen  white,  each  day. 
She  had  a  wonderful  voice,  shrill,  far- 
reaching,  but  strangely  sweet  and  clear, 
with  a  certain  vibrating,  reedy,  bird-like 
quality,  which  even  yet  thrills  me  as  I 
recall  it. 

I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  few  of  the 
little  stories,  pictures,  fables,  parables, 
allegories,  —  I    scarcely   know  what   to 

9 


Story-Tell  Lib 

call  them,  —  which  I  heard  Story-tell 
Lib  relate.  The  words  are  her  own, 
but  I  cannot  give  you  the  sweet  tones, 
the  quaint  manner,  the  weird,  strange 
personality,  of  the  little  narrator.  Let 
me  say  here  that  often  the  little  para- 
bles seemed  meant  to  cheer  and  lift 
up  Lib's  own  trembling  soul,  shut  up 
in  the  frail,  crippled  body.  Meant,  I 
say;  perhaps  that  is  not  the  right 
word.  For  did  she  mean  anything  by 
these  tales,  at  least  consciously?  Be 
that  as  it  may,  certain  of  these  little 
stories  seemed  to  touch  her  own  case 
strangely. 


le 


The  Shet-up  Posy 


l!l 


11 

THE  first  story  I  ever  heard  the 
child  tell  was  one  of  those  which 
seemed  to  hold  comfort  and  cheer  for 
herself  or  for  humble  little  souls  like 
her.  It  was  a  story  of  the  closed  gen- 
tian, the  title  of  which  she  announced, 
as  she  always  did,  loudly,  and  with  an 
amusing  little  air  of  self-satisfaction. 

The  Shet-up  Posy 

Once  there  was  a  posy.  'T  wa'  n't  a 
common  kind  o'  posy,  that  blows  out 
wide  open,  so  's  everybody  can  see  its 
outsides  and  its  insides  too.  But  't  was 
one  of  them  posies  like  what  grows 
down  the  road,  back  o'  your  pa's  sugar- 
house,  Danny,  and  don't  come  till  way 
towards  fall.     They  're  sort  o'  blue,  but 


Story-Tell  Lib 

real  dark,  and  they  look  *s  if  they  was 
buds  'stead  o'  posies,  —  only  buds  opens 
out,  and  these  does  n't  They  're  all 
shet  up  close  and  tight,  and  they  never, 
never,  never  opens.  Never  mind  how 
much  sun  they  get,  never  mind  how 
much  rain  or  how  much  drouth,  whether 
it 's  cold  or  hot,  them  posies  stay  shet 
up  tight,  kind  o'  buddy,  and  not  fin- 
ished and  humly.  But  if  you  pick  'em 
open,  real  careful,  with  a  pin,  —  I  *ve 
done  it,  —  you  find  they  're  dreadful 
pretty  inside. 

You  could  n't  see  a  posy  that  was 
finished  off  better,  soft  and  nice,  with 
pretty  little  stripes  painted  on  'em,  and 
all  the  little  things  like  threads  in  the 
middle,  sech  as  the  open  posies  has, 
standing  up,  with  little  knots  on  their 
tops,  oh,  so  pretty, — you  never  did! 
Makes  you  think  real  hard,  that  does ; 
leastways,    makes    me.      What 's    they 

14 


The  Shet-up  Posy 

that  way  for?  If  they  ain't  never  goin' 
to  open  out,  what 's  the  use  o'  havin' 
the  shet-up  part  so  slicked  up  and  nice, 
with  nobody  never  seein'  it?  Folks 
has  different  names  for  'em,  dumb  fox- 
gloves, blind  genshuns,  and  all  that,  but 
I  allers  call  'em  the  shet-up  posies. 

Well,  't  was  one  o'  that  kind  o'  posy  I 
was  goin'  to  tell  you  about.  'Twas 
one  o'  the  shet-uppest  and  the  buddiest 
of  all  on  'em,  all  blacky-blue  and 
straight  up  and  down,  and  shet  up  fast 
and  tight.  Nobody  'd  ever  dream  'twas 
pretty  inside.  And  the  funniest  thing, 
it  did  n't  know  't  was  so  itself!  It 
thought  'twas  a  mistake  somehow, 
thought  it  had  oughter  been  a  posy, 
and  was  begun  for  one,  but  wa'  n't  fin- 
ished, and  'twas  terr'ble  unhappy.  It 
knew  there  was  pretty  posies  all  'round 
there,  goldenrod  and  purple  daisies  and 
all ;  and  their  inside  was  the  right  side, 

»5 


Story-Tell  Lib 

and  they  was  proud  of  it,  and  held  it 
open,  and  showed  the  pretty  lining,  all 
soft  and  nice  with  the  little  fuzzy  ycUer 
threads  standin'  up,  with  little  balls  on 
their  tip  ends.  And  the  shet-up  posy 
felt  real  bad ;  not  mean  and  hateful  and 
begrudgin',  you  know,  and  wantin'  to 
take  away  the  nice  part  from  the  other 
posies,  but  sorry,  and  kind  o'  'shamed. 

"  Oh,  deary  me  !  "  she  says,  —  I  most 
forgot  to  say  't  was  a  girl  posy,  — 
"  deary  me,  what  a  humly,  skimpy, 
awk'ard  thing  I  be !  I  ain't  more  'n 
half  made;  there  ain't  no  nice,  pretty 
lining  inside  o*  me,  like  them  other 
posies ;  and  on'y  my  wrong  side  shows, 
and  that 's  jest  plain  and  common.  I 
can't  chirk  up  folks  like  the  goldenrod 
and  daisies  does.  Nobody  won't  want 
to  pick  me  and  carry  me  home.  I 
ain't  no  good  to  anybody,  and  I  nevei 
•hall  be." 

i6 


« 


% 


The  Shet-up  Posy 

So  she  kep*  on,  thinkin'  these  dread- 
ful sorry  thinkin's,  and  most  wishin' 
she'd  never  been  made  at  all.  You 
know  't  wa'  n't  jest  at  fust  she  felt  this 
way.  Fust  she  thought  she  was  a  bud, 
like  lots  o'  buds  all  'round  her,  and  she 
lotted  on  openin'  like  they  did.  But 
when  the  days  kep'  passin'  by,  and  all 
the  other  buds  opened  out,  and  showed 
how  pretty  they  was,  and  she  did  n't 
open,  why,  then  she  got  terr'ble  dis- 
couraged; and  I  don't  wonder  a  mite. 
She  'd  see  the  dew  a-layin'  soft  and 
cool  on  the  other  posies'  faces,  and  the 
sun  a-shinin'  warm  on  'em  as  they  held 
*em  up,  and  sometimes  she  'd  see  a 
butterfly  come  down  and  light  on  'em 
real  soft,  and  kind  o'  put  his  head  down 
to  'em,  's  if  he  was  kissin'  'em,  and  she 
thought  'twould  be  powerful  nice  to 
hold  her  face  up  to  all  them  pleasant 
things.     But  she  could  n't. 

2  19 


Story-Tell  Lib 

But  one  day,  afore  she  'd  got  very 
old,  'fore  she  'd  dried  up  or  fell  off,  or 
anything  like  that,  she  see  somebody 
comin'  along  her  way.  'Twas  a  man, 
and  he  was  lookin*  at  all  the  posies  real 
hard  and  partic'lar,  but  he  was  n't 
pickin'  any  of  'em.  Seems  *s  if  he 
was  lookin*  for  somethin'  diff'rent  from 
what  he  see,  and  the  poor  little  shet-up 
posy  begun  to  wonder  what  he  was 
arter.  Bimeby  she  braced  up,  and  she 
asked  him  about  it  in  her  shet-up, 
whisp'rin'  voice.  And  says  he,  the 
man  says:  "I'm  a-pickin'  posies. 
That's  what  I  work  at  most  o'  the 
time.  'T  ain't  for  myself,"  he  says, 
"  but  the  one  I  work  for.  I  'm  on'y 
his  help.  I  run  errands  and  do  chores 
for  him,  and  it 's  a  partic'lar  kind  o' 
posy  he  's  sent  me  for  to-day."  "  What 
fordoes  he  want 'em?"  says  the  shet- 
up    posy.      "  Why,    to    set   out   in    his 

x8. 


The  Shet-up  Posy 

gardin,"  the  man  says.  "He's  got  the 
beautif  lest  gardin  you  never  see,  and  I 
pick  posies  for  't."  "  Deary  me," 
thinks  she  to  herself,  "  I  jest  wish  he  'd 
pick  me.  But  I  ain't  the  kind,  I  know." 
And  then  she  says,  so  soft  he  can't 
hardly  hear  her,  "  What  sort  o'  posies 
is  it  you  're  arter  this  time?"  "  Well," 
says  the  man,  "  it 's  a  dreadful  sing'lar 
order  I  've  got  to-day.  I  got  to  find  a 
posy  that 's  handsomer  inside  than  't  is 
outside,  one  that  folks  ain't  took  no 
notice  of  here,  'cause  't  was  kind  o' 
humly  and  queer  to  look  at,  not  knowin* 
that  inside  't  was  as  handsome  as  any 
posy  on  the  airth.  Seen  any  o'  that 
kind?"  says  the  man. 

Well,  the  shet-up  posy  was  dreadful 
worked  up.  "  Deary  dear  !  "  she  says 
to  herself,  "  now  if  they  'd  on'y  finished 
me  off  inside  !  I  'm  the  right  kind  out- 
side,  humly    and     queer    enough,   but 

»9 


Story-Tell  Lib 

there  's  nothin'  worth  lookin'  at  inside, 
■ —  I  'm  »,ertin  sure  o'  that."  But  she 
did  n't  say  this  nor  anything  else  out 
loud,  and  bimeby,  when  the  man  had 
waited,  and  did  n't  get  any  answer,  he 
begun  to  look  at  the  shet-up  posy  more 
partic'lar,  to  see  why  she  was  so  mum. 
And  all  of  a  suddent  he  says,  the  man 
did,  "  Looks  to  me  's  if  you  was  some- 
thin'  that  kind  yourself,  ain't  ye?" 
"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  "  whispers  the  shet- 
up  posy.  "  I  wish  I  was,  I  wish  I  was. 
I  'm  all  right  outside,  humly  and 
awk'ard,  queer 's  I  can  be,  but  I  ain't 
pretty  inside,  —  oh!  I  most  know  I 
ain't."  "  I  ain't  so  sure  o'  that  myself," 
says  the  man,  "  but  I  can  tell  in  a  jiffy." 
"  Will  you  have  to  pick  me  to  pieces?  " 
says  the  shet-up  posy.  "  No,  ma'am," 
says  the  man ;  "  I  've  got  a  way  o' 
tellin',  the  one  I  work  for  showed  me." 

The  shet-up  posy   never    knowcd  what 

20 


The  Shet-up  Posy 

he  done  to  her.  I  don't  know  myselt, 
but  'twas  somethin'  soft  and  pleasant, 
that  did  n't  hurt  a  mite,  and  then  the 
man  he  says,  "Well,  well,  well!" 
That 's  all  he  said,  but  he  took  her  up 
real  gentle,  and  begun  to  carry  her 
away.  "  Where  be  ye  takin  me?  "  says 
the  shet-up  posy.  "  Where  ye  belong," 
says  the  man ;  "  to  the  gardin  o'  the 
one  I  work  for,"  he  says.  "I  didn't 
know  I  was  nice  enough  inside,"  says 
the  shet-up  posy,  very  soft  and  still. 
"  They  most  gen'ally  don't,"  says  the 
man. 


fli 


The  Horse  that  B'leeved  he  d 
Get  there 


as 


Ill 

AMONG  those  who  sometimes  came 
to  listen  to  Httle  Lib's  allegories 
was  Mary  Ann  Sherman,  a  tall,  dark, 
gloomy  woman  of  whom  I  had  heard 
much.  She  was  the  -daughter  of  old 
Deacon  Sherman,  a  native  of  the  village, 
who  had,  some  years  before  I  came  to 
Greenhills,  died  by  his  own  hand,  after 
suffering  many  years  from  a  sort  of 
religious  melancholia.  Whether  the 
trouble  was  hereditary  and  his  daughter 
was  born  with  a  tendency  inherited 
from  her  father,  or  whether  she  was 
influenced  by  what  she  had  heard  of 
his  life,  and  death,  I  do  not  know.  But 
she  was  a  dreary  creature  with  never  a 
smile  or  a  hopeful  look  upon  her  dark 

25 


Story-Tell  Lib 

face.  Nothing  to  her  was  right  or 
good ;  this  world  was  a  desert,  her 
friends  had  all  left  her,  strangers  looked 
coldly  upon  her.  As  for  the  future, 
there  was  nothing  to  look  forward  to 
in  this  world  or  the  next.  As  Dave 
Moony,  the  village  cynic,  said,  "  Mary 
Ann  wa  'n't  proud  or  set  up  about 
nothin'  but  bein'  the  darter  of  a  man 
that  had  c'mitted  the  onpar'nable  sin." 
Poor  woman  !  her  eyes  were  blinded  to 
all  the  beauty  and  brightness  of  this 
world,  to  the  hope  and  love  and  joy  of 
the  next.  What  wonder  that  one  day, 
as  she  paused  in  passing  the  little  group 
gathered  around  Lib,  and  the  child 
began  the  little  story  I  give  below,  I 
thought  it  well  fitted  to  the  gloomy 
woman's  case! 


t6 


The  Horse  that  B'leeved  he'd 
Get  there 

You  've  seen  them  thrashin'  machines 
they  're  usin'  round  here.  The  sort, 
you  know,  where  the  horses  keep  step- 
pin'  up  a  board  thing  's  if  they  was 
climbin'  up-hill  or  goin'  up  a  pair  o' 
stairs,  only  they  don't  never  get  along 
a  mite;  they  keep  right  in  the  same 
place  all  the  time,  steppin'  and  steppin', 
but  never  gittin'  on. 

Well,  I  knew  a  horse  once,  that 
worked  on  one  o'  them  things.  His 
name  was  Jack,  and  he  was  a  nice 
horse.  First  time  they  put  him  on  to 
thrash,  he  did  n't  know  what  the  machine 
was,  and  he  walked  along  and  up  the 
boards  quick  and  lively,  and  he  did  n't 
see  why  he  did  n't  get  on  faster.  There 
was  a  horse  side  of  him  named  Billy,  a 

27 


Story-Tell  Lib 

kind  o'  frettin',  cross  feller,  and  he  see 
through  it  right  off. 

"  Don't  you  go  along,"  he  says  to 
Jack;  "  *t  ain't  no  use;  you  won't  never 
get  on,  they're  foolin'  us,  and  I  won't 
give  in  to  'em."  So  Billy  he  hung 
back  and  shook  his  head,  and  tried  to 
get  away,  and  to  kick,  and  the  man 
whipped  him,  and  hollered  at  him. 
But  Jack,  he  went  on  quiet  and  quick 
and  pleasant,  steppin'  away,  and  he 
says  softly  to  Billy,  "  Come  along,"  he 
says ;  "  it 's  all  right,  we  '11  be  there 
bimeby.  Don't  you  see  how  I  'm  git- 
tin'  on  a'ready  ? "  And  that  was  the 
ways  things  went  every  day. 

Jack  never  gin  up ;  he  climbed  and 
climbed,  and  walked  and  walked,  jest  's 
if  he  see  the  place  he  was  goin'  to,  and 
's  if  it  got  nearer  and  nearer.  And 
every  night,  when  they  took  him  off, 
he  was  as  pleased  with  his  day's  journey 

28 


The  Horse  that  B'leeved 

's  if  he  'd  gone  twenty  mile.  "  I  've 
done  first-rate  to-day,"  he  says  to  cross, 
kickin'  Billy.  "  The  roads  was  good, 
and  I  never  picked  up  a  stone  nor 
dropped  a  shoe,  and  I  got  on  a  long 
piece.  I  '11  be  there  pretty  soon,"  says 
he.  "  Why,"  says  Billy,  "  what  a  foolish 
fellow  you  be  !  You  've  been  in  the  same 
place  all  day,  and  ain't  got  on  one  mite. 
What  do  you  mean  by  there  f  Where 
is  it  you  think  you  're  goin',  anyway  ?  " 
"  Well,  I  don't  'zackly  know,"  says 
Jack,  "  but  I  'm  gittin'  there  real  spry. 
I  'most  see  it  one  time  to-day."  He 
did  n't  mind  Billy's  laughin'  at  him,  and 
tryin'  to  keep  him  from  bein'  sat'sfied. 
He  jest  went  on  tryin'  and  tryin'  to  get 
there,  and  hopin'  and  believin'  he  would 
after  a  spell.  He  was  always  peart  and 
comfortable,  took  his  work  real  easy, 
relished  his  victuals  and  drink,  and  slept 
first  rate  nights.     But  Billy  he  fretted 

•9 


Story-Tell  Lib 

and  scolded  and  kicked  and  bit,  and 
that  made  him  hot  and  tired,  and  got 
him  whipped,  and  hollered  at,  and 
pulled,  and  yanked.  You  see,  he 
had  n't  got  anything  in  his  mind  to 
chirk  him  up,  for  he  did  n't  believe 
anything  good  was  comin',  as  Jack  did ; 
he  'most  knowed  it  was  n't,  but  Jack 
'most  knowed  it  was.  And  Jack  took 
notice  of  things  that  Billy  never  see  at 
all.  He  see  the  trees  a-growin',  and 
heered  the  birds  a-singin',  and  Injun 
Brook  a-gugglin'  along  over  the  stones, 
and  he  watched  the  butterflies  a-flyin', 
and  sometimes  a  big  yeller  'n  black  one 
would  light  right  on  his  back.  Jack 
took  notice  of  'em  all,  and  he  'd  say, 
"  I  'm  gettin'  along  now,  certin  sure, 
for  there  's  birds  and  posies  and  flyin' 
things  here  I  never  see  back  along.  I 
guess  I  'm  most  there."  "  '  There, 
there ! ' "     Billy  'd  say.     "  Where  is  it, 

30 


The  Horse  that  B'leeved 

anyway?  I  ain't  never  seen  any  o'  them 
posies  and  creators  you  talk  about,  and 
I  'm  right  side  of  you  on  these  old 
boards  the  whole  time." 

And  all  the  children  round  there 
liked  Jack.  They  'd  watch  the  two 
horses  workin',  and  they  see  Billy  all 
cross  and  skittish,  holdin'  back  and 
shakin'  his  head  and  tryin'  to  kick, 
never  takin'  no  notice  o'  them  nor 
anything.  And,  again,  they  see  Jack 
steppin'  along  peart  and  spry,  pleasant 
and  willin',  turnin'  his  head  when  they 
come  up  to  him,  and  lookin'  friendly  at 
'em  out  of  his  kind  brown  eyes,  and 
they  *d  say,  the  boys  and  girls  would, 
"  Good  Jack !  nice  old  Jack !  "  and 
they  'd  pat  him,  and  give  him  an  apple, 
or  a  carrot,  or  suthin'  good.  But  they 
did  n't  give  Billy  any.  They  did  n't 
like  his  ways,  and  they  was  'most 
afraid   he  *d    bite   their   fingers.      And 


Story-Tell  Lib 

Jack  would  say,  come  evenin*,  "It's 
gittin'  nicer  and  nicer  we  get  further  on 
the  road,  —  ain't  it?  Folks  is  pleasanter 
speakin',  and  the  victuals  'pears  better 
flavored,  and  things  is  comfortabler 
every  way,  seems  's  if,  and  I  jedge  by 
that  we  're  'most  there."  But  Billy  'd 
say,  a-grumblin'  away,  "It's  worse  'n 
worse, — young  ones  a-botherin'  my 
life  out  o'  me,  and  the  birds  a-jabberin' 
and  the  posies  a-smellin'  till  my  head 
aches.  Oh,  deary  me !  I  'm  'most 
dead."  So  't  went  on  and  kep'  on. 
Jack  had  every  mite  as  hard  work  as 
Billy,  but  he  did  n't  mind  it,  he  was 
so  full  o'  what  was  comin*  and  how 
good  't  would  be  to  get  there.  And 
'cause  he  was  pleasant  and  willin'  and 
worked  so  good,  and  'cause  he  took 
notice  o'  all  the  nice  things  round  him, 
and  see  new  ones  every  day,  he  was 
treated  real  kind,  and  never  got   tired 

32/ 


The  Horse  that  B'leeved 

and  used  up  and  low  in  his  mind  like 
Billy.  Even  the  flies  did  n't  pester 
him  's  they  done  Billy,  for  he  on'y  said, 
when  he  felt  'em  bitin'  and  crawlin', 
"  Dog-days  is  come,"  says  he,  "  for 
here  's  the  flies  worse  and  worse.  So 
the  summer  's  most  over,  and  I  '11  get 
there  in  a  jiffy  now." 

What  am  I  stoppin'  for,  do  you  say, 
'Miry?  'Cause  that's  all.  You  need  n't 
make  sech  a  fuss,  child'en.  It 's  done, 
this  story  is,  I  tell  ye.  Leastways  I 
don't  know  any  more  on  it.  I  told  you 
all  about  them  two  horses,  and  which 
had  a  good  time  and  which  did  n't,  and 
what  't  was  made  the  differ'nce  'twixt 
*em.  But  you  want  to  know  whether 
Jack  got  there.  Well,  I  don't  know  no 
more  'n  the  horses  did  what  there  was, 
but  in  my  own  mind  I  b'leeve  he  got  it. 
Mebbe  'twas  jest  dyin'  peaceful  and 
quiet,  and  restin'  after  all  that  steppin* 
3  33 


Story-Tell  Lib 

and  climbin'.  He  'd  a-liked  that,  partic 
*lar  when  he  knowed  the  folks  was  sorry 
to  have  him  go,  and  would  alius  rec'lect 
him.  Mebbe  't  was  jest  livin'  on  and 
on,  int'rested  and  enjoyin',  and  liked  by 
folks,  and  then  bein'  took  away  from 
the  hard  work  and  put  out  to  pastur' 
for  the  rest  o'  his  days.  Mebbe  'twas 
—  Oh!  Id'  know.  Might  'a'  been 
lots  o'  things,  but  I  feel  pretty  certin 
sure  he  got  it,  and  he  was  glad  he 
had  n't  gi'n  up  b'leevin'  't  would  come. 
For  you  'member,  all  the  time  when 
Billy  'most  knowed  it  was  n't,  Jack 
'most  knowed  't  was. 


94 


The  Plant  that  Lost  its  Berry 


J5 


J 


IV 

IT  was  a  sad  day  in  Greenhills  when 
we  knew  that  Susan  Holcomb's  httle 
Jerusha  was  dead.  We  all  loved  the 
child,  and  she  was  her  mother's  dearest 
treasure.  Susan  was  a  widow,  and  this 
was  her  only  child.  A  pretty  little 
creature  she  was,  with  yellow  curls  and 
dark-blue  eyes,  rosy  and  plump  and 
sturdy.  But  a  sudden,  sharp  attack  of 
croup  seized  the  child,  and  in  a  few 
hours  she  fell  asleep.  I  need  not  tell 
you  of  the  mother's  grief.  She  could 
not  be  comforted  because  her  child  was 
not.  One  day  a  little  neighbor,  a  boy 
with  great  faith  —  not  wholly  misplaced 
—  in  the  helpfulness  cf  Story-tell  Lib's 
Jittle  parables,  succeeded,  with  a  child's 
art,  in  bringing  the  sad  mother  to  the 

it 


Story.Tell  Lib 

group  of  listeners.     And  it  was  that  day 
that  Lib  told  this  new  story. 


The  Plant  that  Lost  its  Berry 

Once  there  was  a  plant,  and  it  had 
jest  one  little  berry.  And  the  berry  was 
real  pretty  to  look  at.  It  was  sort  o' 
blue,  with  a  kind  o'  vvhitey,  foggy  look 
all  over  the  blue,  and  it  wa'  n't  round  like 
huckleberries  and  cramb'ries,  but  long- 
ish,  and  a  little  p'inted  to  each  end. 
And  the  stem  it  growed  on,  the  little 
bit  of  a  stem,  you  know,  comin'  out  o' 
the  plant's  big  stem,  like  a  little  neck  to 
the  berry,  was  pinky  and  real  pretty. 
And  this  berry  did  n't  have  a  lot  o'  teenty 
little  seeds  inside  on  it,  like  most  berries, 
but  it  jest  had  one  pretty  white  stone  in 
it,  with  raised  up  streaks  on  it. 

The  plant  set  everything  by  her  little 
berry.     She  thought  there  never  was  in 


i 


The  Plant  that  Lost  its  Berry 

all  the  airth  sech  a  beautiful  berry  as 
hern,  —  so  pretty  shaped  and  so  whitey 
blue,  with  sech  a  soft  skin  and  pinky 
neck,  and  more  partic'lar  with  that  nice, 
white,  striped  stone  inside  of  it.  She 
held  it  all  day  and  all  night  tight  and 
fast.  When  it  rained  real  hard,  and  the 
wind  blowed,  she  kind  o'  stretched  out 
some  of  her  leaves,  and  covered  her 
little  berry  up,  and  she  done  the  same 
when  the  sun  was  too  hot.  And  the 
berry  growed  and  growed,  and  was  so 
fat  and  smooth  and  pretty !  And  the 
plant  was  jest  wropped  up  in  her  little 
berry,  lovin'  it  terr'ble  hard,  and  bein' 
dreadful  proud  on  it,  too. 

Well,  one  day,  real  suddent,  when  the 
plant  wasn't  thinkin'  of  any  storm 
comin',  a  little  wind  riz  up.  'Twa'n't  a 
gale,  't  wa'n't  half  as  hard  a  blow  as  the 
berry 'd  seen  lots  o'  times  and  never  got 
hurt  nor  nothin'.     And  the  plant  wa'  n't 

39 


Story-Tell  Lib 

/tiokin*  out  for  any  danger,  when  all  of  a 
suddent  there  come  a  little  bit  of  a  snap, 
and  the  slimsy  little  pink  stem  broke, 
and  the  little  berry  fell  and  rolled  away, 
and,  'fore  you  could  say  "  Jack  Robin- 
son," 'twas  clean  gone  out  o'  sight.  I 
can't  begin  to  tell  ye  how  that  plant 
took  on.  Seem 's  if  she'd  die,  or  go 
ravin'  crazy.  It's  only  folks  that  has 
lost  jest  what  they  set  most  by  on  airth 
that  can  understand  about  it,  I  s'pose. 
She  would  n't  b'leeve  it  fust  off;  she 
'most  knowed  she  'd  wake  up  and  feel 
her  little  berry  a-holdin'  close  to  her, 
hangin'  on  her,  snugglin'  up  to  her  under 
the  shady  leaves.  The  other  plants 
'round  there  tried  to  chirk  her  up  and 
help  her.  One  on  'em  told  her  how  it 
had  lost  all  its  little  berries  itself,  a  long 
spell  back,  and  how  it  had  some  ways 
stood  it  and  got  over  it.  "But  they 
wa'  n't  like  mine,"  thinks  the  poor  plant. 

40 


The  Plant  that  Lost  its  Berry 

"  There  never,  never  was  no  berry  like 
mine,  with  its  pretty  figger,  its  pinky, 
slim  little  neck,  and  its  soft,  smooth- 
feelin'  skin."  And  another  plant  told 
her  mcbbe  her  berry  was  saved  from 
growin'  up  a  trouble  to  her,  gettin'  bad 
and  hard,  with  mebbc  a  worm  inside  on 
it,  to  make  her  ashamed  and  sorry. 
"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  thinks  the  mother  plant. 
"  My  berry  'd  never  got  bad  and  hard, 
and  I  'd  'a'  kep'  any  worm  from  touchin' 
its  little  white  heart."  Not  a  single 
thing  the  plant-folks  said  to  her  done  a 
mite  o'  good.  Their  talk  only  worried 
her  and  pestered  her,  when  she  jest 
wanted  to  be  let  alone,  so  's  she  could 
think  about  her  little  berry  all  to 
herself 

Just  where  the  berry  used  to  hang, 
and  where  the  little  pinky  stem  broke 
off,  there  was  a  sore  place,  a  sort  o' 
scar,  that  ached  and  smarted  all  day  and 

41 


Story-Tell  Lib 

all  night,  and  never,  never  healed  up. 
And  bimeby  the  poor  plant  got  all  wore 
out  with  the  achin'  and  the  mournin'  and 
the  missin'  and  she  'peared  to  feel  her 
heart  all  a-dryin'  up  and  stoppin',  and 
her  leaves  turned  yeller  and  wrinkled, 
and  —  she  was  dead.  She  could  n't  live 
on,  ye  see,   without  her  little  berry. 

They  called  it  bein'  dead,  folks  did, 
and  it  looked  like  it,  for  there  she  lay 
without  a  sign  of  life  for  a  long,  long, 
long  spell.  'Twas  for  days  and  weeks 
and  months  anyway.  But  it  did  n't 
seem  so  long  to  the  mother  plant.  She 
shet  up  her  eyes,  feelin'  powerful  tired 
and  lonesome,  and  the  next  thing  she 
knowed  she  opened  'em  again,  and  she 
was  wide  awoke.  She  hardly  knowed 
herself,  though,  she  was  so  fresh  and 
juicy  and  'live,  so  kind  o'  young  every 
way.  Fust  off  she  did  n't  think  o'  any- 
thing but  that,  how  good  and  well  she 

4« 


The  Plant  that  Lost  its  Berry 

felt,  and  how  beautiful  things  was  all 
'round  her.  Then  all  of  a  suddent  she 
rec'lected  her  little  berry,  and  she  says 
to  herself,  "  Oh,  dear,  dear  me  !  If  only 
my  own  little  berry  was  here  to  see  me 
now,  and  know  how  I  feel ! "  She 
thought  she  said  it  to  herself,  but 
mebbe  she  talked  out  loud,  for,  jest  as 
she  said  it,  somebody  answered  her. 
'T  was  a  Angel,  and  he  says,  "  Why 
your  little  berry  does  see  you,  —  look 
there."  And  she  looked,  and  she  see 
he  was  p'intin'  to  the  beautiflest  little 
plant  you  never  see,  —  straight  and  nice, 
with  little  bits  o'  soft  green  leaves,  with 
the  sun  a-shinin'  through  'em,  and,  — 
well,  somehow,  you  never  can  get  it 
through  your  head  how  mothers  take 
in  things,  —  she  knowed  cert'in  sure 
that  was  her  little  berry. 

The  Angel  begun  to  speak.     He  was 
goin'  to  explain  how.  if  she  had  n't  never 

4$ 


Story-Tell  Lib 

lost  her  berry,  't  would  n't  never  'a' 
growed  into  this  pretty  plant,  but,  he  see, 
all  of  a  suddent,  that  he  need  n't  take 
the  trouble.  She  showed  in  her  face 
she  knowed  all  about  it,  —  every  blessed 
thing.  I  tell  ye,  even  angels  ain't  much 
use  explainin*  when  there 's  mothers,  and 
it 's  got  to  do  with  their  own  child'en. 
Yes,  the  mother  plant  see  it  all,  without 
tellin'.  She  was  jest  a  mite  'shamed 
but  she  was  terr'ble  pleased. 


^ 


The  Stony  Heac^ 


45 


WHEN  little  Lib  told  the  story 
I  give  below,  Deacon  Zenas 
Welcome  was  one  of  the  listeners.  The 
deacon  was  a  son  of  old  Elder  Welcome 
who  had  been  many  years  before  the 
pastor  of  the  little  church  in  a  neighbor- 
ing village.  Elder  Welcome  was  one 
of  the  old-fashioned  sort  not  so  common 
in  these  days,  a  good  man,  but  stern  and 
somewhat  harsh.  He  preached  only 
the  terrors  of  the  law,  dwelt  much  upon 
the  doctrines,  the  decrees,  election,  pre- 
destination, and  eternal  punishment,  and 
rarely  lingered  over  such  themes  as  the 
fatherhood  of  God,  his  love  to  mankind, 
and  his  wonderful  gift  to  a  lost  world. 
The  son  followed  in  his  father's  foot- 
steps.    He  was  a  hard,  austere,  melan- 

47 


Story-Tell  Lib 

choly  man,  undemonstrative  and  reticent, 
shutting  out  all  brightness  from  his  own 
life,  and  clouding  many  an  existence 
going  on  around  him.  I  have  always 
thought  that  his  unwonted  presence 
among  us  that  day  had  a  purpose,  and 
that  he  had  come  to  spy  out  some  taint 
of  heterodoxy  in  Lib's  tales,  to  reprove 
and  condemn.  He  went  away  quietly, 
however,  when  the  story  was  ended, 
and  we  heard  nothing  of  reproof  or 
condemnation. 


The  Stony  Head 

Once  there  was  somethin'  way  up  on 
the  side  of  a  mountain  that  looked  like 
a  man's  head.  The  rocks  up  there  'd  got 
fixed  so 's  they  jest  made  a  great  big  head 
and  face,  and  everybody  could  see  it  as 
plain  as  could  be.  Folks  called  it  the 
Stony  Head,  and  they  come  to  see  it 

48 


The  Stony  Head 

from  miles  away.  There  was  a  man 
lived  round  there  jest  where  he  could 
see  the  head  from  his  winder.  He  was 
a  man  that  things  had  gone  wrong  with  all 
along;  he'd  had  lots  o'  trouble,  and  he 
did  n't  take  it  very  easy.  He  fretted 
and  complained,  and  blamed  it  on  other 
folks,  and  more  partic'lar  on  —  God. 
And  one  day — he'd  jest  come  to  live 
in  them  parts — he  looked  out  of  his 
winder,  and  he  see,  standin'  out  plain 
ag'in  the  sky,  he  see  that  Stony  Head. 
It  looked  real  ha'sh  and  hard  and  stony 
and  dark,  and  all  of  a  suddent  the  man 
thought  it  was  —  God. 

"Yes,"  he  says  to  hisself,  "  that's  jest 
the  way  I  'most  knowed  he  looked,  ha'sh 
and  hard  and  stony  and  dark,  and  that 's 
him."  The  man  was  dreadful  scaret  of 
it,  but  some  ways  he  could  n't  stop  look- 
in'  at  it.  And  bimeby  he  shet  hisself 
up  there  all  alone,  and  spent  his  whole 
4  49 


Story-Tell  Lib 

time  jest  a-lookin'  at  that  hard,  stony 
face,  and  thinkin'  who  't  was,  and  who  'd 
brought  all  his  trouble  on  him.  There 
was  poor  folks  all  'round  that  deestrict, 
but  he  never  done  nothin'  to  help  'em ; 
let  'em  be  hungry  or  thirsty  or  ailin',  or 
shet  up  in  jail,  or  anything,  he  never 
helped  'em  or  done  a  thing  for  'em,  'cause 
he  was  a-lookin'  every  single  minute  at 
that  head,  and  seein'  how  stony  and 
hard  it  was,  and  bein'  scaret  of  it  and 
the  One  he  thought  it  looked  like. 

Folks  that  was  in  trouble  come  along 
and  knocked  at  his  door,  and  he  never 
opened  it  a  mite,  even  to  see  who  was 
there.  Sheep  and  lambs  that  had  got 
lost  come  a-strayin'  into  his  yard,  but 
he  never  took  'em  in,  nor  showed  'em 
the  way  home.  He  wa'  n't  no  good  to 
nobody,  not  even  to  hisself,  for  he  was 
terr'ble  unhappy  and  scaret  and  angry. 
So  't  went  on,  oh  !  I  d'  know  how  long, 

50 


The  Stony  Head 

years  and  years,  I  guess  likely,  and 
there  the  man  was  shet  up  all  alone, 
lookin'  and  lookin',  and  scaret  at  look- 
in'  at  that  ha'sh,  hard,  stony  face  and 
head.  But  one  day,  as  he  was  settin' 
there  by  the  winder  lookin',  he  heerd  a 
little  sound.  I  d'  know  what  made 
him  hear  it  jest  then.  There 'd  been 
sech  sounds  as  that  time  and  time  ag'in, 
and  he  never  took  no  notice.  'Twas 
like  a  child  a-cryin',  and  that 's  common 
enough. 

But  this  time  it  seemed  diffent,  and 
he  couldn't  help  takin'  notice.  He 
tried  not  to  hear  it,  but  he  had  to. 
'T  was  a  little  child  a-cryin'  as  if  it  had 
lost  its  way  and  was  scaret,  and  the 
man  found  he  could  n't  stand  it  some- 
how. Mebbe  the  reason  was  he  'd  had 
a  little  boy  of  his  own  once,  and  he  lost 
him.  Now  I  think  on  't,  that  was  one 
o'  the  things  he  blamed  on  God,  and 

5« 


Story-Tell  Lib 

thought  about  when  he  looked  at  the 
Stone  Head.  Anyway,  he  could  n't 
stand  this  cryin'  that  time,  and  he  started 
up,  and,  fust  thing  he  knovved,  he  'd 
opened  the  door  and  gone  out.  He 
had  n't  been  out  in  the  sunshine  and 
the  air  for  a  long  spell,  and  it  made  his 
head  swimmy  at  fust.  But  he  heerd 
the  little  cryin'  ag'in,  and  he  run  along 
on  to  find  the  child.  But  he  could  n't 
find  it;  every  time  he'd  think  he  was 
close  to  it,  he  'd  hear  the  cryin'  a  little 
further  off.  And  he  'd  go  on  and  on, 
a-stumblin'  over  stones  and  fallin*  over 
logs  and  a-steppin'  into  holes,  but  stickin' 
to  it,  and  forgettin'  everything  only  that 
little  cryin'  voice  ahead  of  him.  Seems 
's  if  he  jest  must  find  that  little  lost  boy 
or  girl,  's  if  he  'd  be  more  'n  willin'  to 
give  up  his  own  poor  lonesome  old  life 
to  save  that  child.  And,  jest  *s  he  come 
to  thinkin'  that,  he  see  somethin'  ahead 

5» 


The  Stony  Head 

of  him    movin'    and    in    a    minute    he    * 
knovved  he  'd  found  the  lost  child. 

'Fore  he  thought  what  he  was  a-doin', 
he  got  down  on  his  knees  jest  's  he  used 
to  do  'fore  he  got  angry  at  God,  and 
was  goin'  to  thank  him  for  helpin'  him 
to  save  that  child.  Then  he  rec'lected. 
It  come  back  to  him  who  God  was,  and 
how  he  'd  seed  his  head,  with  the  ha'sh 
stony  face  up  on  the  mountain,  and 
that  made  him  look  up  to  see  it  ag'in. 
And  oh!  what  do  you  think  he  see? 
There  was  the  same  head  up  there, — he 
could  n't  make  a  mistake  about  that,  — 
but  the  face,  oh  !  the  face  was  so  diff'ent. 
It  was  n't  ha'sh  nor  hard  nor  dark  any 
more.  There  was  such  a  lovin',  beauti- 
ful, kind  sort  o'  look  on  it  now.  Some 
ways  it  made  the  man  think  a  mite  of 
the  way  his  father,  that  had  died  ever 
so  long  ago,  used  to  look  at  him  when 
he  was  a  boy,  and  had  been  bad,  and 

53. 


Story-Tell  Lib 

then  was  sorry  and  'shamed.  Oh,  'twas 
the  beautif'lest  face  you  never  see! 
"Oh!  what  ever  does  it  mean?"  says 
the  man  out  loud.  "What's  changed 
that  face  so?  Oh !  what  in  the  world  's 
made  it  so  difFent?"  And  jest  that  min- 
ute a  Angel  come  up  close  to  him. 
'T  was  a  little  young  Angel,  and  I  guess 
mebbe  't  was  what  he  'd  took  for  a 
lost  child,  and  that  he  'd  been  follerin' 
so  fur.  And  the  Angel  says,  "The  face 
ain't  changed  a  mite.  'Twas  jest  like 
that  all  the  time,  only  you  're  lookin'  at 
it  from  a  diffent  p'int."  And  'twas  so, 
and  he  see  it  right  off.  He  'd  been  fol- 
lerin' that  cryin'  so  fur  and  so  long  that 
he  'd  got  into  a  diflPent  section  o'  coun- 
try, and  he  'd  got  a  diffent  view,  oh ! 
a  terr'ble  difTent  view,  and  he  never 
went  back. 


54 


Diff'ent  Kind  o'  Bundles 


19 


VI 

EVERYBODY  in  Greenhills  knew 
"  Stoopin'  Jacob,"  the  little  hump- 
backed boy  who  lived  at  the  north  end 
of  the  village.  From  babyhood  he 
had  suffered  from  a  grievous  deformity 
which  rounded  his  little  shoulders  and 
bowed  the  frail  form.  It  was  character- 
istic of  the  kindly  folk  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, that,  instead  of  calling  the  boy 
Hump-backed  or  Crooked-backed  Jacob, 
they  gave  him  the  name  of  Stoopin* 
Jacob,  as  if  the  bowed  and  bent  posture 
was  voluntary,  and  not  enforced. 

A  lovely  soul  dwelt  in  that  crooked, 
pain-racked  body,  and  looked  out  of 
the  gentle  brown  eyes  shining  in  the 
pale,  thin  little  face.  Every  one  loved 
the   boy,   most  of   all  the   dogs,  cats, 

SI 


Story-Tell  Lib 

horses,  cows  of  the  little  farms,  the 
birds  and  animals  of  forest  and  brook- 
side.  He  knew  them  all,  and  they 
knew,  loved,  and  trusted  him.  The 
tinier  creatures,  such  as  butterflies,  bees, 
ants,  beetles,  even  caterpillars,  downy 
or  smooth,  were  his  friends,  or  seemed 
so.  He  knew  them,  watched  them, 
studied  their  habits,  and  was  the  little 
naturalist  of  Greenhills  village,  con- 
sulted by  all,  even  by  older  and  wiser 
people. 

A  close  friendship  existed  between  the 
boy  and  Story-tell  Lib,  and  we  all  under 
stood  the  tale  she  told  us  one  day  when 
Stoopin*  Jacob  was  one  of  the  listeners. 

DiflT'ent  Kind  o'  Bundles 

Once  there  was  a  lot  o'  folks,  and 
every  single  one  on  'em  had  bundles  on 
their  backs.     But  they  was  all  diff'ent, 

58 


Diffent  Kind  o'  Bundles 

oh!  jest  as  diff'ent  as  —  as  anything, 
the  bundles  was.  And  these  folks  all 
b'longed  to  one  person,  that  they  called 
the  Head  Man.  They  was  liis  folks, 
and  nobody  else's,  and  he  had  the 
whole  say,  and  could  do  anything  he 
wanted  to.  But  he  was  real  nice,  and 
always  done  jest  the  best  thing,  —  yes, 
sir,  the  bestest  thing,  whatever  folks 
might  say  against  it. 

Well,  I  was  tellin'  ye  about  how  these 
folks  had  diff'ent  kind  o'  bundles  on 
their  backs.  'T  was  this  way.  One  on 
'em  was  a  man  that  had  a  real  hefty 
bundle  on  his  back,  that  he  'd  put  on 
there  hisself,  —  not  all  to  onct,  but  a 
mite  to  time,  for  years  'n'  years.  'T  was 
a  real  cur'us  bundle,  made  up  out  o' 
little  things  in  the  road  that  'd  got  in 
his  way,  or  hurt  him,  or  put  him  back. 
Some  on  'em  was  jest  little  stones  that 
had  hurt  his  feet,  and  some  was  little 

59 


Story-Tell  Lib 

stingin*  weeds  that  smarted  him  as  he 
went  by  'em,  and  some  was  jest  mites  o' 
dirt  somebody  'd  throwed  at  him,  not 
meanin'  no  great  o'  harm.  He  'd  picked 
'em  all  up,  every  bit  o'  worryin',  prickin', 
hurtin'  little  thing,  and  he  'd  piled  'em 
up  on  his  back  till  he  had  a  big  bundle 
that  he  allers  carried  about  and  never 
forgot  for  a  minute. 

He  was  f 'rever  lookin'  out  for  sech 
troublin'  things,  too,  and  he  'd  see  'em 
way  ahead  on  him  in  his  road,  and 
sometimes  he  'd  think  he  sec  'em  when 
there  wa' n't  any  there  't  all.  And, 
'stead  o'  lettin'  'em  lay  where  they  was, 
and  goin'  right  ahead  and  forgettin'  'em, 
he'd  pick  every  single  one  on  'em  up 
and  pile  'em  on  that  bundle,  and  carry 
'cm  wherever  he  went. 

And  he  was  allers  talkin'  about  'em 
to  folks,  p'intin'  out  that  little  stone  that 
he  'd  stubbed  his  toe  on,  and  this  pesky 

60 


Diff'ent  Kind  o'  Bundles 

weed  that  stung  him,  and  t'  other  little 
miteo'  mud  he'd  conceited  somebody 'd 
throwed  at  him.  He  fretted  and  scolded 
and  complained  'bout  'em,  and  made 
out  that  nobody  never  had  so  many 
tryin'  things  gettin'  in  his  way  as  he 
had.  He  never  took  into  'count,  ye 
see,  that  he  'd  picked  'em  up  hisself  and 
piled  'em  on  his  own  back.  If  he'd 
jest  let  'em  lay,  and  gone  along,  he'd 
'a'  forgot  'em  all,  I  guess,  after  a  spell. 

Then  there  was  another  man  with  a 
bundle,  a  cur'us  one  too,  for  't  was  all 
made  out  o'  money,  dreadful  heavy  and 
cold  and  hard  to  carry.  Every  speck 
o'  money  he  could  scrape  together  he  'd 
put  in  that  bundle,  till  he  could  n't 
scursely  heft  it,  'twas  that  big  and 
weighed  so  much.  He  had  plenty  o' 
chances  to  make  it  lighter,  for  there  was 
folks  all  along  the  road  that  needed  it 
bad,  —  little     child'en    that   hadn't  no 

6i 


Story-Tell  Lib 

clo'es  nor  no  victuals,  and  sick  folks 
and  old  folks,  every  one  on  'em  needin' 
money  dreadful  bad.  But  the  man 
never  gin  'em  a  mite.  He  kep'  it  ail 
on  his  back,  a-hurtin'  and  weighin'  him 
down. 

Then  ag'in  there  was  another  man. 
He  had  a  bundle  that  he  did  n't  put  on 
his  back  hisself,  nor  the  Head  Man 
did  n't  nuther.  Folks  did  it  to  him. 
He  had  n't  done  nothin'  to  deserve  it, 
'twas  jest  put  on  him  by  other  people, 
and  so  't  was  powerful  hard  to  bear. 
But,  ye  see,  the  Head  Man  had  pervided 
partic'lar  for  them  kind,  and  he  'd  said 
in  public,  so  't  everybody  knowed  about 
it,  that  he  *d  help  folks  like  that,  —  said 
he  'd  help  'em  carry  sech  bundles  his- 
self, or  mebbe  take  'em  off,  if  it  'peared 
to  be  best. 

But  this  man  disremembered  that,  — 
or  worse  still,  p'r'aps  he  did  n't  'zackly 

63 


Diff  ent  Kind  o"  Bundles 

believe  it.  So  he  went  along  all  scrunched 
down  with  that  hefty  bundle  other  folks 
had  piled  up  on  him,  not  scoldin'  nor 
complainin'  nor  gittin'  mad  about  it, 
but  jest  thinkin'  it  had  got  to  be,  and 
nobody  could  help  him.  But  ye  see  it 
had  n't  got  to  be,  and  somebody  could 
'a'  helped  him. 

And  then  bimeby  along  come  a  man 
that  had  sech  a  hefty,  hefty  bundle  I 
'Twas  right  'tween  his  shoulders,  and 
it  sort  o'  scrooched  him  down,  and  it 
hurt  him  in  his  back  and  in  his  feelin's. 
The  Head  Man  had  put  that  bundle  on 
the  man  hisself  when  he  was  a  little  bit 
of  a  feller.  He  'd  made  it  out  o'  flesh 
and  skin  and  things.  It  was  jest  ezackly 
like  the  man's  body,  so  't  when  it  ached 
he  ached  hisself.  And  he'd  had  to 
carry  that  thing  about  all  his  born 
days. 

I  don't  know  why  the  Head  Man  done 


Story-Tell  Lib 

it,  I  'm  sure,  but  I  know  how  good  and 
pleasant  he  was,  and  how  he  liked  his 
folks  and  meant  well  to  'em,  and  how 
he  knowed  jest  what  oughter  be  and 
what  had  n't  oughter  be,  so  't  stands  to 
reason  he  'd  done  this  thing  a-purpose, 
and  not  careless  like,  and  he  had  n't 
made  no  mistake. 

I've  guessed  a  lot  o'  reasons  why 
he  done  it.  Mebbe  he  see  the  man 
would  n't  'a'  done  so  well  without  the 
bundle,  —  might  'a'  run  off,  'way,  'way 
off  from  the  Head  Man  and  the  work 
he  had  to  do.  Or,  ag'in,  p'r'aps  he 
wanted  to  make  a  'zample  of  the  man, 
and  show  folks  how  patient  and  nice  a 
body  could  be,  even  though  he  had  a 
big,  hefty  bundle  to  carry  all  his  born 
days,  one  made  out  o'  flesh  and  skin 
and  things,  and  that  hurt  dreadful. 

But  my  other  guess  is  the  one  I  b'leeve 
inmost,— -that  the  Head  Man  done  it 

64 


Diff'ent  Kind  o'  Bundles 

to  scrooch  him  down,  so  *s  he  'd  take 
notice  o'  little  teenty  things,  down  be 
low,  that  most  folks  never  see,  things 
that  needed  him  to  watch  'em,  and  do 
for  'em,  and  tell  about  'em.  That 's  my 
fav'rite  guess.  'Tany  rate,  the  Head 
Man  done  right,  —  I'm  cert'in  sure  o' 
that. 

And  it  had  made  the  man  nicer,  and 
pleasanter  spoken,  and  kinder  to  folks, 
and  partic'lar  to  creaturs.  It  had  made 
him  sort  o'  bend  down,  'twas  so  hefty, 
and  so  he  'd  got  to  takin'  notice  o'  teenty 
little  things  nobody  else  scursely'd  see, 
—  mites  o'  posies,  and  cunnin'  little  bugs, 
and  creepin',  crawlin'  things.  He  took 
a  heap  o'  comfort  in  'em.  And  he  told 
other  folks  'bout  them  little  things  and 
their  little  ways,  and  what  they  was 
made  for,  and  things  they  could  learn 
us;  and  'twas  real  int'restin',  and  done 
folks  good  too. 

$  65 


Story-Tell  Lib 

And,  deary  me,  he  was  that  patient 
and  good  and  uncomplainin',  you  never 
see !  No,  I  ain't  a-cryin'.  This  was 
a  stranger,  this  man,  you  know,  and 
I  make  a  p'int  o*  never  cryin'  about 
strangers. 

There  was  a  lot  and  a  lot  more  kinds 
o'  folks  with  bundles,  but  I  *m  only  goin* 
to  tell  ye  about  them  four,  —  this  time, 
any  way. 

Well,  come  pay  day,  these  folks  all 
come  up  afore  the  Head  Man  to  be 
settled  with.  And  fust  he  called  up  the 
man  that  had  the  bundle  all  made  out 
o'  things  that  had  pricked  him,  and 
tripped  him  up,  and  scratched  him,  and 
put  him  back  on  the  road.  And  then 
he  had  up  the  man  with  the  money 
weighin'  him  down, — the  money  he'd 
kep*  away  from  poor  folks  and  piled  up 
on  his  own  back.  And  then  come  the 
feller  that  was  carryin'  the  heavy  bundle 

64 


Diff'ent  Kind  o'  Bundles 

folks  had  put  on  him  when  't  wa'  n't  no 
fault  o'  his'n,  and  that  he  might  'a*  got 
red  of  a  long  spell  back,  if  he  *d  only 
rec'lected  what  the  Head  Man  had  said 
'bout  sech  cases,  and  how  they  could 
be  helped. 

I  ain't  a-goin'  to  tell  ye  what  he  said 
to  them  folks,  'cause 't  ain't  my  business, 
seems  to  me.  Whether  he  punished 
either  on  'em,  or  scolded  *em,  or  sent 
'em  off  to  try  ag'in,  or  what  all,  never 
mind.  Knowin'  's  much  as  I  do  about 
the  ways  o'  that  Head  Man,  I  bet  he 
made  'em  feel  terrible  ashamed,  any 
way. 

But  when  he  came  to  the  man  with 
the  bundle  made  out  o*  flesh  and  skin 
and  things,  he  looks  at  him  a  minute, 
and  then  says  he,  the  Head  Man  does, 
"  Why,"  he  says,  "  that 's  my  own  work ! 
I  made  that  bundle,  and  I  fixed  it  on 
your  back  all  myself,     I   hefted  and  I 

67 


Story-Tell  Lib 

sized  it,  and  I  hefted  you  and  sized  you. 
A  mite  of  a  young  one  you  was  then. 
I  made  it  jest  hefty  enough  for  you  to 
carry,  not  a  bit  heftier,  no  more  nor  less. 
I  rec'lect  it  well,"  he  says.  "  I  ain't 
forgot  it.  I  never  forgot  it  one  minute 
sence  I  fitted  in  on,  though  mebbe  you 
kind  o'  thought  by  spells  that  I  had. 
And  now,"  he  says —  No,  I  can't  tell 
ye  what  he  says.  It  *s  a  secret,  that  is. 
But  I  don't  mind  lettin*  ye  know  that 
the  man  was  sat'sfied,  perfec'ly  sat'sfied. 
A  Angel  told  me  he  was,  and  went  on 
to  say  the  man  was  dreadful  pleased  to 
find  he  'd  been  wearin*  a  bundle  the 
Head  Man  hisself  had  made  and  fixed 
on  him,  heftin'  it  and  sizin'  it,  and 
heftin'  him  and  sizin'  him  too,  so 's 
'twa'n't  too  much  for  him  to  carry. 
But  he  ain't  carryin'  it  no  more.  The 
Angel  said  so. 


68 


The  Boy  that  was  Scaret 
o'  Dyin' 


VII 

I  HAVE  told  you  that  little  Lib  was 
a  delicate  child,  and  that  she  grew 
more  and  more  fragile  and  weak  as  the 
summer  went  on.  In  the  hot,  dry  days 
of  August  she  drooped  like  a  thirsty 
flower,  and  her  strength  failed  very  fast. 
Her  voice,  though  still  sweet  and  clear, 
lost  its  shrillness,  and  one  had  to  draw 
very  close  to  the  little  speaker  that  he 
might  not  lose  a  word  of  the  stories  she 
told.  Aunt  Jane  York  often  came  out 
to  us  now,  anxious  and  fussy,  talking 
fretfully  of  and  to  little  Lib,  fee'ing  the 
small  hands  and  feet  to  see  if  they  were 
cold,  and  drawing  the  shawl  closer 
around  the  wasted  form.  I  know  she 
loved  the  little  girl,  and  perhaps  she 
wished  now  that   she  had    shown    that 

V 


Story-Tell  Lib 

love  more  tenderly.  She  talked  freely, 
in  the  very  presence  of  the  child,  of  her 
rapid  decline  and  the  probability  that 
she  would  not  "  last  long,"  Lib  said 
nothing  concerning  her  own  condition, 
and  showed  no  sign  of  having  heard  her 
aunt's  comments.  But  one  day,  when 
Miss  York,  after  speaking  very  freely 
and  plainly  of  the  child's  approaching 
end,  had  gone  indoors.  Lib  announced, 
in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  a  new  story. 

The  Boy  that  was  Scaret 
o'  Dyin' 

Once  there  was  a  boy  that  was  dread- 
ful scaret  o'  dyin'.  Some  folks  is  that 
way,  you  know ;  they  ain't  never  done 
it  to  know  how  it  feels,  and  they  're 
scaret  And  this  boy  was  that  way. 
He  wa*  n't  very  rugged,  his  health  was 
sort  o'  slim,  and  mebbe  that  made  him 

7* 


The  Boy  that  was  Scaret  o'  Dyin' 

think  about  sech  things  more.  'Tany 
rate,  he  was  terr'ble  scaret  o'  dyin'. 
'Twas  a  long  time  ago  this  was,  —  the 
times  when  posies  and  creaturs  could 
talk  so  *s  folks  could  know  what  they 
was  sayin'. 

And  one  day,  as  this  boy,  his  name 
was  Reuben,  —  I  forget  his  other  name, 

—  as  Reuben  was  settin'  under  a  tree, 
an  ellum  tree,  cryin',  he  heerd  a  little, 
little  bit  of  a  voice,  —  not  squeaky,  you 
know,  but  small  and  thin  and  soft  like, 

—  and  he  see  'twas  a  posy  talkin'. 
'Twas  one  o'  them  posies  they  call 
Benjamins,  with  three-cornered  whitey 
blowths  with  a  mite  o'  pink  on  *em,  and 
it  talked  in  a  kind  o'  pinky-white  voice, 
and  it  says,  "  What  you  cryin'  for, 
Reuben?"  And  he  says,  " 'Cause  I'm 
scaret  o'  dyin',"  says  he ;  "  I  'm  dreadful 
scaret  o'  dyin'."  Well,  what  do  you 
think?     That  posy  jest  laughed, ™- the 

U 


Story-Tell  Lib 

most  cur'us  little  pinky-white  laugh 
't  was,  —  and  it  says,  the  Benjamin 
says :  "  Dyin' !  Scaret  o'  dyin*  ?  Why, 
I  die  myself  every  single  year  o*  my 
life."  "Die  yourself!"  says  Reuben 
"  You  're  foolin' ;  you  *re  alive  this 
minute."  "  'Course  I  be,"  says  the  Ben- 
jamin; "but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there,  —  I've  died  every  year  sence  I 
can  remember."  "  Don't  it  hurt?  "  says 
the  boy.  "  No,  it  don't,"  says  the  posy ; 
**  it 's  real  nice.  You  see,  you  get  kind 
o'  tired  a-holdin'  up  your  head  straight 
and  lookin'  peart  and  wide  awake,  and 
tired  o'  the  sun  shinin'  so  hot,  and  the 
winds  blowin'  you  to  pieces,  and  the 
bees  a-takin' your  honey.  So  it's  nice 
to  feel  sleepy  and  kind  o'  hang  your 
head  down,  and  get  sleepier  and  sleepier, 
and  then  find  you  're  droppin'  off.  Then 
you  wake  up  jest  't  the  nicest  time  o' 
year,  and  come  up  and  look  'round,  and 

74 


The  Boy  that  was  Scaret  o'  Dyin' 

—  why,  I  like  to  die,  I  do."  But  some- 
ways  that  did  n't  help  Reuben  much  as 
you  'd  think.  "  I  ain't  a  posy,"  he  think 
to  himself, "  and  mebbe  I  would  n't  come 
up." 

Well,  another  time  he  was  settin'  on 
a  stone  in  the  lower  pastur',  cryin' 
again,  and  he  heerd  another  cur'us  little 
voice.  'Twa'n't  like  the  posy's  voice, 
but  'twas  a  little,  wooly,  soft,  fuzzy 
voice,  and  he  see  't  was  a  caterpillar  a- 
talkin'  to  him.  And  the  caterpillar  says, 
in  his  fuzzy  little  voice,  he  says,  "What 
you  cryin'  for,  Reuben?  "  And  the  boy, 
he  says,  "  I  'm  powerful  scaret  o'  dyin', 
that's  why,"  he  says.  And  that  fuzzy 
caterpillar  he  laughed.  "  Dyin' !  "  he 
says.  "  I  'm  lottin'  on  dyin'  myself. 
All  my  fam'ly,"  he  says,  "  die  every 
once  in  a  while,  and  when  they  wake  up 
they 're  jest  splendid,  —  got  wings,  and 
fly  about,  and  live  on  honey  and  things. 

75 


Story-Tell  Lib 

Why,  I  would  n't  miss  it  for  anything!** 
he  says.  "  I  'm  lottin'  on  it."  But  some- 
how that  did  n't  chirk  up  Reuben  much. 
"  I  ain't  a  caterpillar,"  he  says,  "  and 
mebbe  I  would  n't  wake  up  at  all." 

Well,  there  was  lots  o'  other  things 
talked  to  that  boy,  and  tried  to  help 
him,  —  trees  and  posies  and  grass  and 
crawlin'  things,  that  was  allers  a-dyin' 
and  livin',  and  livin'  and  dyin'.  Reuben 
thought  it  did  n't  help  him  any,  but  I 
guess  it  did  a  little  mite,  for  he  could  n't 
help  thinkin'  o'  what  they  every  one  on 
'em  said.  But  he  was  scaret  all  the 
same. 

And  one  summer  he  begun  to  fail  up 
faster  and  faster,  and  he  got  so  tired  he 
could  n't  hardly  hold  his  head  up,  but 
he  was  scaret  all  the  same.  And  one 
day  he  was  layin'  on  the  bed,  and  lookin' 
out  o'  the  east  winder,  and  the  sun  kep' 
a-shinin'  in  his  eyes  till  he  shet  'em  up, 

76 


The  Boy  that  was  Scaret  o'  Dyin' 

and  he  fell  asleep.  He  had  a  real  good 
nap,  and  when  he  woke  up  he  went  out 
to  take  a  walk. 

And  he  begun  to  think  o'  what  the 
posies  and  trees  and  creaturs  had  said 
about  dyin',  and  how  they  laughed  at 
his  bein'  scaret  at  it,  and  he  says  to  him- 
self, "  Why,  someways  I  don't  feel  so 
scaret  to-day,  but  I  s'pose  I  be."  And 
jest  then  what  do  you  think  he  done? 
Why,  he  met  a  Angel.  He'd  never 
seed  one  afore,  but  he  knowed  it  right 
off.  And  the  Angel  says,  "  Ain't  you 
happy,  little  boy?"  And  Reuben  says, 
"  Well,  I  would  be,  only  I  'm  so  dreadful 
scaret  o*  dyin'.  It  must  be  terr'ble 
cur'us,"  he  says,  "  to  be  dead."  And  the 
Angel  says,  "  Why,  you  be  dead."  And 
he  was. 


The  story  of  the  boy  that  was  scaret 
o'  dyin'  was  the  last  story  that  little  Lib 

77 


Story-Tell  Lib 

ever  told  us.  We  saw  her  sometimes 
after  that,  but  she  was  not  strong  enough 
to  talk  much.  She  sat  no  longer  now 
in  the  low  chair  under  the  maples,  but 
lay  on  a  chintz-covered  couch  in  the 
sitting-room,  by  the  west  windows.  The 
once  shrilly-sweet  voice  with  its  clear 
bird  tones  was  but  a  whisper  now,  as 
she  told  us  over  and  again,  while  she 
lay  there,  that  she  would  tell  us  a  new 
story  "  to-morrow."  It  was  always  "  to- 
morrow" till  the  end  came.  And  the 
story  was  to  be,  so  the  whisper  went 
on,  "  the  beautif  'lest  story,  —  oh,  you 
never  did  !  "  And  its  name  was  to  be, 
—  what  a  faint  and  feeble  reproduction 
of  the  old  triumphant  announcement  of 
a  new  title  !  —  "  The  Posy  Gardin'  that 
the  King  Kep'." 

She  never  told  us  that  story.  Before 
the  autumn  leaves  had  fallen,  while  the 
maples  in  front  of  the  farmhouse  were 


The  Boy  that  was  Scaret  o'  Dyin' 

still  red  and  glorious  in  their  dying 
beauty,  we  laid  our  little  friend  to  rest. 
Perhaps  she  will  tell  us  the  tale  some 
day.  I  am  sure  there  will  be  "  a  Angel " 
in  it,  —  sure,  too,  that  the  story  will 
have  a  new  and  tender  meaning  if  we 
hear  it  there,  that  story  of  the  King  and 
of  the  posy  gardin'  he  kep'. 


79 


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